


Between the Headstones

by shaxper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Cemetery, Child Neglect, Dialogue Light, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, POV Derek Hale, Protective Derek Hale, Whump, Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaxper/pseuds/shaxper
Summary: In the oldest corner of the Beacon Hills cemetery lies the first grave, dug there during the founding of the town. The headstone is small and decrepit, only bearing the wordsDerekLoyal Guardian
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	Between the Headstones

The boy wept, his father’s hand on his shoulder, hand in hand with another boy at the edge of the freshly dug grave. A few steps behind a curly haired woman tries to cry as silently as she can. Some assortment of town officials, police officers and townsfolk have gathered around them all, keeping their distance to the grieving father and son, offering condolences with terse smiles and quick claps on the man’s back.

Derek had seen this scene countless times before, as he sat at the edge of the graveyard with a young woman. It always felt unjust, escorting the guardians of small children to the Otherside. The pale, mole riddled woman’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she watched her son and husband, hand absentmindedly stroking Derek’s black fur.

“I’m glad I get to remember them,” she whispers, more to herself than to Derek. As the small ceremony came to a close and it was time to pass on, she turned to him with a smile slightly lighter than the one she’d bore just a moment prior.

As he turns to lead the woman over the threshold he sneaks one last look at the wailing boy, now unwilling to leave his mother’s final resting place, being wrestled away by his swaying father.

+†+

The grave was most often visited by the boy, even when his visits seemed to always end in tears and useless gasps of breath. Derek felt powerless as the boy slowly lost consciousness in the arms of his chaperon of the day, sometimes his father, more often one of the officers or the crooked jawed boy and his curly haired mother. Sometimes though, when his escort failed to notice the boys struggle to breathe, Derek would curl around his shaking form and wait for the fit to pass.

As the visits started to dwindle out, the father seeming more withdrawn on each visit and smelling strongly of whiskey and sweat, Derek could see the boy wear down. He’d keep a brave face, his tears disappearing behind a stony mask as he changed the flowers on the grave, only to quickly turn back around to lead his father back to the police cruiser by his hand. Sometime though, the boy would peer around, looking for something.

+†+

Stiles was crying, and terrified. Derek’s heckles had risen the second he’d seen the boy enter the cemetery grounds, snot and blood smeared around his cheeks and chin. He’d ran straight for his mother’s grave, taking cover behind the headstone, seeming frantic as he wiped at the mess on his face with the trembling sleeve of his hoodie.

Derek could hear the leering shouts as a gaggle of kids emerged to the parking lot after the boy, taunting him, throwing insults and threats in one breath. He didn’t wait for them to make it further than the entrance of the cemetery before rumbling deep in his chest, stopping the boys in their tracks, their huge eyes looking at the black, red eyed mass of fur and teeth.

It took Derek snarling out a warning bark for the kids to turn on their heels to run back out onto the lot. He chased them out of the graveyard, snapping his maw at their ankles as they scurried off on their bikes. He stood watch at the gate, the bullies’ backs disappearing into the intersection, keeping one ear on the sniffling he could still hear from behind the headstone, and when the Sheriff’s cruiser finally entered the parking lot he had no choice but to slink back out of sight.

+†+

The sky blue jeep came like clock work, every first Sunday of every month. Stiles would walk to the familiar spot, sit down, talk and eat junk food for an hour or so. He’d talk about how he’d made it into the lacrosse team, but was doomed to forever be the bench warmer with his friend, Scott. He’d talk of Lydia, who still seemed to not have noticed his existence. He’d talk about his father, how he hadn’t had a drink for a week or two, sometimes more, often less, and the state of his father’s heart. Stiles knew he sneaked the fatty delights on his night shifts, or when he’d have to stay for a double shift, but when it was up to Stiles, he strong armed his father into eating healthy as often as he could.

Derek knew Stiles didn’t come there to talk to him, but he couldn’t help but take refuge behind Stiles’ mother’s headstone, lying down to listen to Stiles ramble on about school around the mouthful of fries, seemingly unable to ever stop fidgeting. Not a lot of people mourned their loved ones this way these days, it had become lonely work helping people pass on. 

This Sunday was much the same, and Derek let himself be lulled into a doze by the constant jabber. He was snapped back into attention when only half an hour into his visit Stiles packed away his leftovers and pulled out his phone.

Stiles sheepishly told his mother how he’d stolen the key to the chapel office from Isaac, the son of the gravedigger, to get pictures of the map of the grave plots, supposedly for a history project. He told her about a folklore of how people would bury a dog to help guide the dead to the Otherside, calling people selfish for not being willing to “sacrifice” one of their own for the job.

Derek hadn’t really thought of it that way. He liked having a purpose, and though he’d long forgotten the face of his old master, he couldn’t bring himself to feel sad about it. He had a job, an important one: protect.

Armed with his map, Stiles made his way to the overgrown parts of the cemetery and Derek had no choice but to follow, curious to see what his boy was planning. He kept his distance, staying on adjacent rows as the headstones got harder and harder to read. Derek wanted to lead Stiles to his place of rest, but resigned to digging out the small rock from the foliage, and sat down to wait and watch Stiles stumble through the old headstones with his eyes on the dim and cracked screen of his phone.

A half hour of scrubbing at moss and reading years, Stiles finally made it to the original corner of the cemetery. Derek had managed to disturb the area around his grave marker enough for Stiles to zero in on it, and recognize it for what it was. He went to crouch in front of it, and Derek couldn’t help but feel excited. No one had visited him since he’d been put to ground. Stiles started to peel at the moss, slowly tracing his fingers along the corroded letters.

Derek, it said.

What a dull name, he thought.

Stiles pulled something out of his pockets, placed it on the grave and left with a quiet thank you. Derek remained seated, watching the kid’s retreating back and making sure he made it out the thicket with every limb intact, before shifting his focus on what had been left behind.

On his grave sat a piece of Stiles’ burger patty and a few dog treats, and Derek had never felt this strong of an urge to become corporeal once more before.

+†+

Time stretches and expands when you cross over to the afterlife. A few minutes there would become hours in the living realm, so Derek guides the souls only so far before turning back to resume his post. It was already nearing midnight when he made it back, only to spot the sky blue jeep illuminated in the light of the full moon. It hadn’t moved from the spot it had been in when he’d left to accompany the Sheriff, and Derek couldn't help but hasten his steps. It was well into February, and due to the clear night sky the fresh dusting of snow had yet to melt.

When he arrived at the reopened grave, his fears were confirmed. Stiles was huddled against the headstone, his face red and familiarly smeared in tears and snot. He was completely curled in on himself, pulling his ill-fitting suit jacket around himself. His usually frantic heartbeat had slowed to a laborious thumping and Derek whined as he approached his boy. He nosed at the long cold fingers, the small white puffs of steam coming from the blue lips the only visible sign of life. Derek’s form dwarfed the boy like this as he settled around the cold body in a desperate attempt to warm him.

Slowly Stiles opened his eyes, weakly looking into Derek’s warm red gaze, offering a tired smile and a stretched out hand. As his stiff fingers dug into Derek’s scruff he let out a shuddering breath of cold air, his eyes prickling with moisture as he buried his face into Derek’s shoulder.

His quiet voice pierced through the cold night air of the deserted cemetery.

“Come on, big guy. I think it’s time for us to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> this fic is based on a folklore that probably makes no sense in the context of settlers in california but i hope you'll look past that for a cool concept
> 
> let me know how much i managed to hurt you in the comments : )


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